Letters from Elwood: False Witness
by Jo Z. Pierce
Summary: Elwood takes to the road to see the United States of America. STAND ALONE, but this was written as PART II of Letters from Elwood series. Rated T.
1. To the Road

_A/N: This story takes place directly after my other fic "Letters from Elwood: The Liberty of Lies." **HOWEVER** - you do not have to read that story to understand this one. This can stand alone._

* * *

**LETTERS FROM ELWOOD:**

**FALSE WITNESS**

**by Jo Z. Pierce**

"Elwood! You're gonna get us killed!" a young Jake screamed at his younger brother.

"No I ain't."

Within a year or two, Elwood would be able to comfortably sit behind the wheel of any car. Based on his body type and build, people guessed that Elwood would soon be quite tall. But with orphans, no one really could know for sure. Until then, he was just another skinny little boy.

And right now, he was the skinny little boy just able to see over the steering wheel of a 1965 Pontiac GTO.

"Okay then...You're gonna get ME killed!" Jake rephrased his panicked plea, asking Elwood to slow down.

"No I ain't."

Jake was always getting himself into one bad situation or another. Most of the time, these situations could have been easily avoided. Tormenting the Penguin too many times was easily avoided. Or trying to pull a fast one on some kid in class, then underestimating his opponent's skill or strength. Whatever the situation, it always led to some back pedaling, fancy footwork, or an elaborate web of lies woven to dig himself out of the mess.

But for once, this bad situation wasn't even his fault. This time, Jake found himself in the passenger seat of a stolen car his little brother desperately wanted to drive.

"Come on, Elwood! I ain't kidding!"

Elwood shrugged it off, as he concentrated on the road, and made himself comfortable. He had finally figured out the clutch, and now he was learning about speed. Elwood didn't have a lot of experience driving, but even at twelve, he was a natural. Jake only wished they weren't practicing down the residential streets.

Jake covered his eyes dramatically as they swerved to avoid a kid that had jumped out into the middle of the road. The boy was no older than Jake. The car spun out as Elwood hit the brake. Completing the full 360 degree spin, barely missing the row of cars parked along the street, he resumed as if nothing had even happened.

"Jesus Christ, Elwood!"

"Don't worry, Jake," the younger brother assured Jake with a devilish smirk on his face. "I've got it all under control. Otherwise, we'd already be dead."

Jake looked at his younger brother in complete shock, mouth gaping open just a little. Then he turned and looked out the front windshield again, and sat back in his seat. With a deep breath, he settled in for the ride. Jake found his own space, and maintained his own brand of calm composure.

"Yeah, man. I know," Jake finally said. "You're good."

Ever since that time, Jake never doubted his brother's driving skills again. He understood his brother had the knack. He was one with his cars. And it wasn't just keeping his hands on the wheel, or keeping the car between the yellow lines on the road.

Jake could control the chicks, with a good line, a suprisingly convincing smile, and his big brown eyes. But for Elwood, it was all about the road. Ever since the first time he and Jake went joy riding in a stolen car, it was clear that Elwood would always be the one behind the wheel. Making some form of contact with the road was just his thing.

Twelve years later, in the summer of 1978, Elwood still found himself turning to the road.

A few days ago, he was in Chicago, trying to figure out his life, and where he was going. Honestly, he hadn't thought about that in a long while. When he was six, he thought about being a police man. When he was eight, he wanted to be a musician. By the time he left the orphanage, being a car mechanic at least seemed like a way to keep himself near cars, and away from the law, in between gigs.

Now everyone he cared about either was too far away, or had turned their backs on him. Jake was in Joliet. The band had completely split. Some girl he thought he fell for turned out to be a wrong number. Even meaningless one night stands weren't satisfying. Everything just felt like a dead end street. No matter what he thought about - his brother, the band, or women - nothing seemed to be turning out right.

A road trip wasn't how he planned to spend his summer. What? With the price of gas? Still, he decided this was the time to hit the road, and to see the United States of America, the way tourists never do.

With a full tank of gas, he loaded up the Caddy with a few 8 track cassettes and a small briefcase, and he didn't look back.

The first few hours were the toughest. Elwood found himself thinking a lot about motors. And the band. And Jake. It was better than the alternatives, he told himself. Last thing he needed was to get distracted from his driving while thinking about chicks. Then, every time he told himself that, he'd spend the next few hours thinking about them. So instead, he made sure to think about shock absorbers.

Those first few days, it seemed like he drove every back road in the northern half of Illinois. He must have filled up the tank ten times, just riding in circles through depressed towns and middle class havens alike. Then he moved east into Indiana. There, too, he'd drive the highway, or the backroads. It didn't matter. He just had to keep moving. When the music on the radio started to suck or offer nothing but static, he knew that he'd gone to far. At that point, he would either pop in an 8-track, or turn the car and head in a new direction.

He'd robbed a car not too long ago, and the money was good. Eight hundred bucks. But most of the money had run out by now. He put aside some cash to pay his rent while away. That was only about sixty dollars. The rest went to a hotel room for that one night stand, a few tanks of gas, and a whole lot of booze. He'd have to start shopping in places that offered him the _"Five Finger Discount."_ Nick it, then pawn it off somewhere down the road. He'd sleep in the backseat, and do what he had to do to keep the Caddy on the road.

He wasn't going back to Chicago until things were sorted out in his mind.

Three days later, he was back in Illinois. Interstate 55, heading south into Springfield was pretty much a straight run. This was the heartland, he told himself. But if it was the heart and soul of the United States, why did it suck so much?

Finally in Springfield, he pulled the Caddy into the parking lot of the first post office he could find, and walked in. Politely, he asked the postal worker a few questions, then bought a few stamps, some paper, and some envelopes. He took them over to a counter, and scribbled a few notes.

He wondered if all the stuff he abandoned in his place was still there, or if Lloyd thought he'd decided to take off for good. He pulled out a few twenties, folded them up, and stuffed them between a letter.

_August 1, 1978_

_Lloyd,_

_Here's the money for the room, for August. Don't know when I'll be back._

_Don't sell my stuff, but you can have the food and booze in the fridge. _

_Tell Sam he was wrong._

_Elwood_

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few other notes that he had been scribbling to people over the past few days. The note to his boss. Screw that. Who needed a straight job, anyway? No reason now, was there?

The note to the bitch who stood him up a few days ago? He looked at the letter, and put it back in his pocket. Let her wait, the way I waited for her.

Then there was the note to Jake.

_August 1, 1978_

_Dear Jake,_

_The band got a last minute gig in San Diego. Sorry I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. It's a regular booking, Thursdays through Saturday nights. Maybe a few months. The band is really excited for a regular gig._

_I'll write when I get there, then when I settle in, but it may be a while._

_Your brother,_

_Elwood_

* * *


	2. A Letter with Lincoln

August 4, 1978

Sometimes Elwood hummed. Sometimes he whistled. As he casually slipped the letters into the mail slot, he slowly whistled a few bars of "_Signed, Sealed, Delivered_."

"God dammit," he thought. "Now that's gonna be on my mind all fucking day."

He tried to shake it out of his mind as he turned around to leave the Post Office. As he rotated on his heels, he looked up and noticed the old painting.

The depression era mural, in faded colors, wrapped itself around the wall. He stood up straight, looking seriously, and tilted his head as if to study the old images in fresco as they unravelled across the wall. The first scene was the tale of the founding fathers of Springfield, Illinois, its foundation as state capital. Then he saw the pictures of its most famous citizen, Abraham Lincoln. Another man in a black hat. Elwood smirked at the thought and the outrageous comparison.

"Four score and seven years ago," Elwood mouthed the words as he read them off of the mural.

He didn't really spend lots of time studying history when he was in school, but he did remember the stories of Lincoln. He freed black slaves. And he wrote that speech of his on the back of an envelope, if he remembered correctly. He looked back at the mail slot and thought of the letters he wrote, and how nothing much would ever come of what he scribbled on the outside - or even the inside - of those envelopes.

He also remembered Curtis was fond of Lincoln, too. Looking up at the images of the dead president he remembered that. He also remembered something that happened years ago. And the thought made his stomach turn.

Right now, he'd rather be whistling that damned Stevie Wonder hit.

Curtis' wall was a gallery of men and women involved with the civil rights movement in the United States. Martin Luther King. Malcolm. John F. Kennedy. Bobby Kennedy. Rosa Parks. Yet Abraham Lincoln, whose words on that envelope started it all a hundred years earlier, was conspicuously absent from that gallery.

Absent, at least ever since that day back in 1962.

* * *

"Elwood?" Curtis said, as he looked down at the young boy. "Do you know what happened to it?" Curtis then pointed up to the pictures, and tapped on the wall right above the photo of President Kennedy. 

Elwood's lips were slightly pouty, as he shrugged. Curtis gave him another suspicious look, then turned to Elwood's older brother.

"Jake?" Curtis continued on with his futile interrogation. Jake refused to meet Curtis' eyes with his own. Instead, he squirmed in place, shaking his head. Elwood closed his eyes and slightly shook his head, annoyed by his brother's inability to keep cool. It seemed that Jake was able to bullshit anyone, except for Curtis. Maybe it was some sort of bond that Jake had with the man, but he never was good at hiding things from him. Maybe that was why Curtis was the closest thing to family that they ever had. Like family, he could read through you like an x-ray machine.

"So, neither of you two boys knows what happened to my Lincoln, there?" Both responded with shaking heads.

"You two boys know that stealing is a sin, don't you?"

"Well, so is bearing false witness," Jake snapped back at Curtis.

That was the first and only time that Elwood ever heard Jake show disrespect to the man. Elwood's eyes were wide open behind his dark glasses, and they darted from side to side out of pure fear. Unsure what else to do and terrified, Elwood dropped his head in shame. But mostly in fear.

If he had been a year or two younger, he may not be able to control his bodily functions.

"Ok, then, boys," Curtis said, slowly and sternly, holding back his anger, his tongue, and quite possibly the back of his hand. "You just spread this word around to all your little friends. Whoever took my Lincoln can return it, and I won't go to Mother Mary. No questions asked. You understand?"

Jake nodded and rolled his eyes. Elwood nodded enthusiastically, like the terrified child he was. Curtis sent them out of his room. It was the first and only time that Curtis would toss the boys out in anger. But the fact that he never really punished them, and never mentioned the Lincoln again was one of the reasons Elwood loved Curtis.

He was the only person, aside from Jake, who showed him unconditional love.

* * *

. 

The memory of that morning made Elwood's stomach turn. Stealing was one thing. But stealing from Curtis? He thought of Jake and his attitude, and he was sick. He thought of his own inability to speak up, and he grew even sicker.

Elwood once again turned on his heels, and went back to the counter. He pulled out another sheet of paper, an envelope, and a stamp. He wrote a little note, while trying to hold back the emotion.

_Dear Curtis, _

_I can't remember if it was me or Jake, but I thought it was time for one of us to make things right._

_Elwood_

Elwood pulled out his wallet, and pulled out the last few bills. He counted two ones, and a crumbled up five. He pulled out the five, straightened it between his fingers, and looked at the image of Abraham Lincoln on the bill. He neatly folded it into the letter in the envelope, sealed it, and licked a stamp for its corner. Finally, he scribbled a few words on the back of the envelope.

_In God We Trust._

He slipped the envelope down the mail slot, then quickly walked out of the Post Office. As he pushed through the doors, he took one last look at the mural, and a fading painting of the American Flag.

"And God Bless the United States of America." he whispered as he walked out into the hot August day.


	3. The Evening News

South down Interstate 55. 

A hundred miles from Springfield to St. Louis. He could make that in just about an hour, but he didn't feel like going fast. Not today. Not now. In fact, he decided to stick to the speed limit.

Anyway, he had all the time in the world, didn't he?

As soon as he started to see the mileage posts whiz by the Caddy, he put Springfield and Curtis and Lincoln all behind him. That was, after all, what this whole trip was about. Forget about the past. Figure out the future.

W. C. Handy's "St. Louis Blues" rang through his mind. He tapped out the tune with his left hand on the door, and his arm resting on the open window.

_Hate to see the evening sun go down,  
'Cause my baby done left this town.  
Feelin' tomorrow like I feel today.  
I'll pack my trunk make my getaway._

.

* * *

It was a bar just like any other. Aside from a few local posters and pictures of local celebrities, you'd never guess it was St. Louis. Elwood pulled up a seat and ordered whatever was on tap. With only two dollars left in his pocket, he'd better make it last.

He also knew he'd have to find out what the local economy was like, in terms of opportunities and pawn shops. But first he'd have a drink.

He looked around at the other men sitting at the bar. The regulars, he guessed, were serious and already well underway in their drinking. He shook his head, then looked up to the tv screen, and tried to listen. The evening news had just started. The bartender asked if he wanted it turned up, and he shrugged. Either way was fine.

_"And congress is still working out the details for its proposed Natural Gas Policy Act. This proposal, as part of the National Energy Act, is designed to protect Americans from potential monopoly pricing during the current natural gas shortage facing this country..."_

"Haven't seen you around here," the bartender noted. An older man, he was dark, and thick, skinned. "Where you in from?"

"Chicago," Elwood replied respectfully, although his attention had now turned to the news.

"Looks like we have loads of traveling music today," he said, pointing to another man on the end of the bar. "Detroit," he added, as if the information would mean anything to Elwood.

Elwood briefly looked over, then raised his chin and eyebrows in acknowledgment of the other man. Had he known it would mean he'd have to endure his company, he would have ignored him. But he didn't, so the man from Detroit got up and took a seat next to Elwood.

"Salesman?"

Elwood looked confused, then realized he was the only one in the room with a shirt and tie. He shook his head, silently, trying to listen to the tv.

"Well, you look like one. Either that, or the C. I. fucking A!" His unwelcome drinking buddy slapped him on the back, and laughed.

"Neither."

"Good. Hate the fucking CIA. Creeps In Action. That's what that stands for!"

Elwood realized that something about the man wasn't right. He either had quite a bit to drink already, or he was taking some sort of street remedies for whatever ailed him. Or, perhaps still, he was faking it somehow. He couldn't tell if it made him harmless, or more dangerous. Still, something was wrong. His clothes seemed too dirty and torn to match up with his neat, short haircut and very clean nails. He wore a jacket in the heat of August.

Even Elwood, with his sleeves rolled up, had left his jacket in the back of the Bluesmobile in this heat.

"So," the man continued, holding out his hand. "I'm John." The name was perfect for the man. Anonymous. "You wouldn't by any chance know where I could... maybe..."

John paused, sniffled, and rubbed one finger under his nose. He continued. "You know. Maybe find some entertainment?"

Elwood thought about it. Normally, he would think he meant a strip club or something like that, but the finger made him think this man was looking for something else. A mirror in the bathroom, a razor blade...maybe some snow on a hot summer night. It was nothing Elwood could offer.

Elwood shook his head and looked up at the tv.

_"And now, in International news, negotiations with the rebel forces in the African Republic of Mmbito have come to a dead standstill. The militia has contained the fighting in the south, but ..."_

"What the fuck is that all about?" John said, pointing up at the tv.

Elwood's stomach was tight. This whole scene was making him very uncomfortable. This discussion wouldn't help matters any.

"I mean, those brothers in Africa over there.." John continued. Although he was black himself, the comment sounded as contrived as if it came from an English butler trying to leave his upper crust surroundings. "Shit. What the hell are they fighting about?"

The bartender shrugged. Elwood looked around. No one seemed to follow, and even fewer people than that even seemed to care. Didn't anyone read a paper anymore?

"Well, it's a political statement of the masses," Elwood began, humbly. "In a post-colonial nation, where a new class of urban elites are negotiating the sale of the country's natural resources to multinational corporations, the masses are fighting back. After a century of colonial exploitation, and now a decade of dealing with the rise of capitalist investors who are more interested in creating personal wealth and accumulating capital than creating a nationalist identity and protecting natural resources, it is a desperate attempt to force the government to..."

Elwood stopped his speech, as the rest of the bar turned all eyes towards him. He rolled his eyes behind his dark glasses. Was he the only one who even heard of Mmbito? Thinking it over for a second, he realized he probably was.

"I, like, heard that, somewhere..."

"What are you, some kind of professor?" The bartender was surprised, and a bit impressed. He poured Elwood another beer, indicating it was on the house.

John slapped him on the back again, laughed and shouted out "No, man, you ARE in the CIA! Shit! That must be it!"

"Nope. I'm a blues musician."

John, and several other of the barflies paused, then broke the silence and laughed out loud.

Elwood took a long drink of his beer. This was a mistake, coming in here. St. Louis was a big city. He should have waited till he made it further into the city limits.

"No. Wait a minute," John said, standing up. "No, you're right. Hey! I know you! Hey? Ain't you one of the Blues Brothers?"

"Yeaah-up," he replied calmly as he turned away and looked at the tv again.

"Yeah, man! I know you! I love your stuff!" Whether flattery or fiction, neither could bring a change to Elwood's expression while he assessed the situation.

"Shit! I love your stuff!" John repeated, growing excited. "I saw you guys once... in Detroit! Shit!"

Elwood just nodded. When John held out his hand to shake it, he cautiously reached out and took hold.

"Shit! I love your stuff. Soul Man... Yeah. That's awesome. You gonna play that one for us?"

"Not tonight." Elwood pulled his hand out of the man's grasp, with a bit more of a struggle than should have been necessary. In response, John wrapped his arm around Elwood's shoulder, as if they were long lost buddies.

"You are playing...?"

"Not tonight."

"Damn. Hey, lemme buy you a drink." He motioned to the bartender to bring a few more over. John pulled a few loose bills from out of his pocket, and slapped two fives on the bar. Both were Lincoln side up.

This was getting to be unbearable.

"Shit! The Blues Brothers!" John broke out in a loud cackle.

"Hey, somebody cut him off..." Someone on the other side of the bar cried out, watching the uncomfortable exchange between the two men at the bar.

"Nah... it's ok. I love these guys!" John laughed again, and took a drink of his beer. It was obviously one in a long line for that night. Finally, he turned and looked at Elwood and squinted his eyes.

"Now, which one are you?" The question set off a few guys at the bar. Over the laughing someone cried out...

"Whew-ey! Hey Mick! Cut him off now!" someone cried out from the crowd. The bartender looked over, then nodded slightly.

"You're Jake, right... " he said patting him on the shoulder. "Right! JAKE!"

Elwood had enough. From Lincoln to Joliet and all the way to Mmbito, this was downright uncomfortable. He swivelled away from him in his seat, as if to leave.

"Aw, man. Don't leave. Sing something, Jake!"

"Not tonight."

"I love Soul man... yeah.. and that other song you sing. How's it go? " He scratched his head, then backed off. He held an invisible microphone in his hand and started to do a bad impression of Jake. His body flailing around, like a mocking, off key version of his brother. But if the performance was bad, the lyrics he could remember were even worse.

_"Next I caught a ride with da da da da,  
she said she was from da da do...  
And what she did... what she did,  
what she did ,what she did  
made me think of you...!"_

Elwood shook his head. He couldn't believe this. It was like the fucking Penguin had transformed herself into this creature named John. Knowing every one of his sins and misdeeds and regrets, he was sent here, by God himself, just to torture Elwood. Every guilty feeling was destined to be dragged up to the surface, and poked at just for the Penguin's pleasure.

"Don't give up yer day job, pal..." another voice cried out.

Elwood calmly got up from his barstool and turned as if to walk away.

"Doing my best to get back to you.. ain't nothin I rather do..."

With that, Elwood turned around, grabbed John by his jacket, and swang. The blow landed squarely on his chin. But before John hit the floor, three guys jumped up started to pull Elwood away.

Struggling to get out of their hold, he made another fist, and awkwardly pointed to his hand, and the tattoos across his fingers.

"The name is Elwood!"

* * *

. 

John was out cold on the floor, and Elwood quickly realized what he had done. He rolled his eyes, then closed them tightly, and just said "Shit." It wasn't like him. He hadn't been in a fight since way back at St. Helen's. It really wasn't his style.

What else could go wrong?

The bartender shook his head, sighed deeply, and made his way out from behind the bar. He gave Elwood a dirty look as he passed by.

"I'm sorry, man..." Elwood said. "But, like, he was really getting to me."

"Yeah. I know," the bartender said. He understood why, but he just wished Elwood hadn't done it on his shift. He bent over and rolled John on his back.

"Hey! Someone get his wallet! He won't be using it!" A few of the regulars laughed.

"Drinks all around!"

"Shut up," the bartender cried to the peanut gallery across the room as he leaned over John's body.

"He was really really drunk, man!" Elwood pleaded.

"He only had two beers, buddy."

Elwood seemed perplexed by that statement. Really? Could this guy really not hold his drink?

The bartender slowly pulled a gun from John's back pocket. Elwood dodged the bullet on that one, quite literally.

"Is he alive?" Elwood asked, worried that his luck was going from bad to worse.

The bartender looked up at him, and just nodded as he started to rifle through his pockets looking for some ID. He pulled out a thin bifold, which he slowly opened.

"Hey!" the peanut gallery continued, laughing. "How much is in there?"

The bartender closed his eyes, let out a single long whistle, and shook his head.

Elwood knew that wasn't good.

"Hey, man, what's his name? Is that his wallet?"

"Nope," the bartender said, still shaking his head. "It's his badge."

"Fuck," Elwood said incredulously. "He's a cop... I just knocked out a cop."

The bar fell deathly silent, and several of the regulars began to gather up their personal belongings at their seats, just in case a quick exit was needed.

"John Mackee, F.B.I."

"Fuck!" Elwood yelled, his heart beat rising. "He's a fed!? What the hell was he doing here! Drunk?"

The bartender stuffed his badge back into his pocket, and placed the gun back in his belt loop.

"He wasn't drunk... Maybe a good actor, but he wasn't drunk. Looks like he was staking someone out."

"Shit," Elwood continued. "And he was asking me about getting some coke, too. Fuck, man. I gotta get outta here..." Elwood's eyes darted around the room, as he looked for the exit.

"Wait a minute, don't panic! Give me a hand." Elwood and the barkeep reached down and picked up John, and dragged him over to a corner booth.

"Shit. He knows who I am, man! He mentioned my brother by name," Elwood said.

"Calm down, okay?"

For some reason, those words hit home. Calm down. Sure. He could do that. That was, after all, his specialty. He took a deep breath, and exhaled.

They propped Johns limp body up in the booth.

"Listen, you gotta help me out. I mean, a fed..."

"Look, I'll have to call it in... but when they come, I'll tell them you was heading west." Elwood was a bit confused. Was he helping him out, or fishing for more info to use when he snitched?

"Hey, you've got a 3 out of 4 chance to stay ahead, right?"

"What about those guys? My car...?

The bartender looked around the room, which had been slowly emptying.

"Anyone see anything?"

There was silence. Elwood looked at John, at the room, then back at the bartender. Finally he looked towards the door.

"Look, you just get the fuck out of here, and don't let me see you again. Ok?"

With a small wave, all Elwood could muster up was a shaky "Thanks, man."

* * *

A/N: There is a small crossover here. John Mackee is not my creation. If you don't know who he is, it doesn't matter. If you do, you know I don't own GAH. 


	4. The Escape

Elwood pulled the Bluesmobile out of the parking lot, with smoke and loud screeching coming from underneath the wheels. He took the first on-ramp to anywhere. Interstate 64, going east? That sounded as good a route as any else.

Speed was, once again, his friend. How long would it take for the cops, or the feds even, to start looking for him?

"Dammit."

He hated running. All his life, he'd had his share of making his escapes. He'd escaped from that foster home, stealing bicycles when he had to. He'd even escaped from the orphanage. At that point, he didn't care how he got away. He just had to get out and find Jake. It was simple. Take control and do what you have to do. He'd steal a car if he had to. He didn't mind that the car was a police car. That only added to the excitement.

But an escape was always different than running. If he was going to be speeding down the road, he wanted to be in control of the situation. It should be on his terms, for Christ's sake! He should have a plan, or at least a direction.

He thought of the woman who stood him up earlier that week. He'd offered her an escape plan. A way out from a situation that he could only imagine as hell. Ultimately, she wouldn't run off with him. He planned her whole fucking escape, but she didn't want to run. At that moment, he resented her. And somehow, he also understood her better than ever.

The sign said 5 miles until the next exit.

Speeding used more gas than going 55. He knew that all to well. He checked his fuel gage, and shook his head. He wasn't sure if he could make it all the way, or if that exit even had an all night gas station. But it was worth a shot.

He turned on the radio and turned up the volume up as loud as he could bear. The music drowned out everything around him, and fuelled the adrenaline rush.

Elwood never heard the sirens behind him, but finally he couldn't help but notice the red and white flashing lights reflecting in the rear view mirror.

This was the problem with mindless running, he thought. You lose your advantage, and your control. You start to panic. Then you fuck up. Next thing you know, you're doing 90 in a 55 mile an hour speed zone, with rollers right up your ass.

He pressed down on the gas as far as it could go. The sirens seemed to be getting softer, as if he was leaving them behind. A moment later, another car pulled out behind him, from some hidden blind spot along the road. The sirens were loud, and unmistakable now.

The Caddy started to shake as it hit 97 miles per hour.

Maybe they'd get him for speeding. Maybe they'd get him for assaulting a federal officer. Maybe both. Maybe more.

Either way, right now he had nothing left to lose.

He took his foot off the gas slightly, and used his indicator light to signal right. All three vehicles started to slow down, and veered over to the right. Silence followed the echo of the sirens being turned off.

He turned off his headlights as he slowed, as if he had completely turned off his motor. As he dropped to 20 miles an hour, Elwood slammed on the gas again, pulled out to the left, and in a single sweeping move, made a 180 degree spin.

"Bless me father... for I have spinned!"

He smiled. What good was suffering through all those years of a Catholic education if you couldn't make fun of it once in a while? Then he realized that without Jake was sitting by his side, his confession wasn't all that funny.

Elwood slammed on the gas, and drove down the highway, going the wrong direction. The road wasn't crowded, but it certainly wasn't empty. He swerved several times, avoiding several cars. The police cars, a bit more concerned for the oncoming traffic, had just about turned around, and made ready for the pursuit. But instead of proceeding, they pulled over to the side of the road, as they looked off into the distance for the red tail lights of the black Cadillac. Yet, they saw no trace of the Bluesmobile.

And Elwood saw nothing ahead of him, with his lights turned off. He'd just have to rely on the lights of the oncoming traffic, or the feel of the rumble strips on the side of the road to guide him. It was just a mile or so to that exit ramp anyway. Just one sixty degree turn, and he could easily find his way onto a back road, and away from the cops.

Elwood hated running. In gym class, he'd sit it out, never enjoying the pounding of his feet on the ground as he ran. His heels touching hard surface, then lifting off on the balls and toes. He hated that forced feeling. Dancing was different. That was his escape. But running was something he didn't want to ever do again.

Tonight, the Bluesmobile did the running for him. The wheels pounded down the asphalt, touching hard ground, then lifting off with all the power that they could bear.

He had no idea where he was heading. But at 90 miles an hour, it didn't matter. He'd get there really fast. He wound around several turns, trying to make his path less traceable.

Again, the music drowned out everything around him, and at least it fuelled the adrenaline rush.

Unfortunately, it couldn't fuel the Caddy itself.

* * *

.

It looked like a residential area, but there weren't too many houses around. That was probably good. Fewer people to be suspicious of him speeding down the road. But that also meant no gas stations, and no street lights to speak of. There were, however, bright lights up in the distance. From where he was, it looked like they were coming from a mansion. Elwood turned his lights on again, turned right, and felt the car begin to putter. This time, the Caddy wasn't shaking due to speed.

"Out of gas?"

It was a stupid question, and he knew it, as it crossed his lips. Of course he was out of gas! And he was expecting it. He only hoped it wouldn't actually happen. He coasted the Caddy to the edge of the road, turned off the lights, and jumped out. He grabbed a gas can and a hose from the trunk. Somewhere, he'd find a car with a little extra fuel to spare. Something would turn up. Thinking about the mansion, though, he also grabbed his suit jacket from the back seat, in case he had to look presentable.

He saw the road light up from behind him, well before he heard the honking horn. A bright red 308 GTB pulled up beside him, and he heard giggling from inside. A window rolled down.

"Is that your car on the side of the road, back there?"

Elwood leaned down to the now open window. A cool waft of air hit him from inside the air conditioned Ferrari. He looked in to see two blondes, smiling, giggling and silly. He crouched down to talk to them.

"Ran out of gas." No more explanation was needed. Instead he offered up a wide grin.

"Well, we could call someone when we get to the club..."

"Uh, no... thanks. That's ok. Maybe I could, uh, squeeze in...?" He pointed into the car.

The girls laughed, thinking about Elwood trying to fit into the two seater. The bleached blond in the passenger seat blushed at the thought of siting on his lap, then seductively smiled back at him.

Elwood continued to smile, and raised his eyebrows a bit suggestively.

"This is a nice car." He ran his hands down the edge of the door. "Zero to a hundred in fifteen seconds... You could get into a lot of trouble... in a car like this." His grin widened even further, listening to the girls giggle uncontrollably at his innuendo.

He slowly added "You want me to, uh ... drive?"

* * *

.

"No... Back there. By the golf carts..." Elwood directed the driver.

He hadn't been able to convince her that he should get behind the wheel, even though he wasn't all that happy with her driving skills, as she jerked the car around a little too much for Elwood's taste. The jerking motion repositioned the girl in his lap, several incredible times. A few times, he repositioned himself on his own, holding onto her hips and moving her soft ass into the best positions. He apologized each time, even though the girl in his lap wasn't complaining.

And neither was Elwood.

Another chance for a quick bit of fun. Like Jake said, never give up the chance for a free ride.

They pulled around the back of the golf house, where the carts were parked.

"Look around... for ... a... pump," Elwood said shyly, but well aware of his play on words. The girls continued to giggle. The girl in his lap, especially, feeling his arousal, subtly wiggled a bit on his lap, pushing her hips further back into him.

Finally, the driver spotted the fuel pump, and pulled up next to it.

"Let me jump out and get some gas..." Elwood said, twisting slightly as he reached for the door handle.

Pressing the button on the automatic door lock, the driver was intent on preventing his escape.


	5. Bread in Motion

He was lucky he was able to pull himself away from those girls, and get back to the Bluesmobile before the cops found it on that back road. Then he drove some more, winding his way through back roads, to avoid the main highwayroads. He found himself sleeping in the parking lot of a grocery store in some little shit hole of a town. It was south of Cape Girardeau, which in itself was it's own special brand of nasty. It was going on noon, when he finally woke, as he began to sweat even in the shady spot he had parked in.

Although he still had a half a tank, he found a station and filled up anyway. He paid in cash, silently thanking the girls in absentia for their kind, if unknowing, contribution to his travel fund.

"Like, they owe me," he rationalized in his mind. "When would they ever have as good a time as that, and not wind up in the slammer?"

Now it was midday, and he was back on I-55 heading south. The sign said two hundred and sixty miles to Memphis. That was his next stop.

Beale Street was calling his name.

* * *

.

Elwood sped past the billboard. At 80 miles an hour, he didn't quite get a chance to read it. With a quick check of the rear view mirrors, he slammed both feet down on the breaks, as both he and the car lurched forward. The Caddy spun out about 10 degrees to the left. Then, in one single motion, he shifted into reverse as he twisted his body to look over the back seat, as he quickly backed up, until the billboard was once again in view.

It was beautiful. It was Divine Will. It was Kismet.

He curled the left side of his lip up into a controlled smile.

What was this wonder of wonders? Truly, America was beautiful, as he looked up at the amazing sight. The billboard depicted a plump man, holding a tray filled with white dinner rolls. And like the great American past time, the man was ready for the pitch. But instead of a baseball in his hand, he held a warm piece of white bread, aerodynamic in design, ready for flight.

Twelve miles ahead, in Sikeston, Missouri, he would embark on a new culinary adventure. Elwood was heading for _Lambert's Café - The Home of the Throwed Roll._

* * *

.

The restaurant was cheesy Americana. He looked around and seemed confused by a gift store in front of the restaurant. Loud laughter and shouting poured out from a cafeteria style room towards the back. He tried to walked up to the room, but was stopped.

"How many, sir?"

Elwood held up one finger.

"For lunch?"

"Um, I'd just like a few of those rolls, m'am..."

She gave him a puzzled look, then explained that they came with the meal. He leaned over again, trying to get a peak into the dining room.

"You came during the rush. It will be a few minutes."

He nodded, innocently, then pointed towards the gift shop, as if asking for information to browse. Perhaps he would pick a few things up, if the opportunity arose.

As he wandered towards the back, he got his chance to look into the restaurant. It was a scene from St. Helen's all over. Long tables filled with hungry bodies. Servers (only this time not in habits) brought around bowls of food that they dished out.

And then he saw him. The man in a white apron, with a plate full of warm rolls. As hand rose into the air, he'd throw a roll to each hungry diner on command.

"Head's up!"

It was controlled chaos. Better yet, it was white bread in flight.

He turned back to the cashier, hoping to get her permission to enter. Instead he saw her whispering to a manager who was on the phone. Both glanced over towards him. He turned, innocently, looking around, as if they couldn't possibly be looking at him.

Did he look that suspicious? Maybe he needed a shower and a decent night's sleep after all. But what he needed right then was something to eat. It had been a while, after all.

And there they were. Throwed rolls, sailing across the room.

He peeked into the room once again, noticing the fire exit at the other end.

"Why the hell not?"

Head held high, and in one sweeping move, Elwood used his long legs to quickly carry himself into the dining room. As he made his way through, he intercepted two rolls in flight, then pushed through the exit door.

* * *

Author's note: There are some things in life that are far stranger than fiction. Head's up! Search for Lambert's Café on the web! You know you want to. 


	6. False Witnesses

Elwood sighed, as he looked up at the officer leaning into his window. How they ever caught up with him, he had no idea. He thought he was one step ahead. But now, probably with theft added onto the list of offenses, he wasn't surprised.

Theft of property. Stealing gas. Speeding. Assaulting a federal officer.

Then again, he could have simply been pulled over for grabbing two pieces of bread.

"I am sorry officer. I was trying to get out of your way. I didn't realize you wanted me to pull over." Elwood shrugged innocently as the officer inspected his license.

"Illinois?"

"Yes, sir."

The officer handed his partner the license, who then proceeded to call it in from the police car.

"Yes," Elwood added. "I'm ... a janitor there. At St. Helen's of the Blessed Shroud Orphanage."

The officer looked at his a bit suspiciously, but then noticed a small picture of a saint on the dashboard.

Elwood pointed at the card, and said "That's Saint Christopher, sir. The patron saint of travelers."

The officer smirked, then continued with his questioning.

"Did you hitch a ride with two ladies, a few miles east of St. Louis?"

"I had run out of gas, officer. Those two nice ladies? They drove me to a gas station. They even gave me some money, for gas."

"Mmmm, hmmmm?"

"That's the truth, officer. I was desperately trying to get back to see my sick mother in Memphis. I guess I didn't plan on how expensive gas was. I already ran out of money."

Somehow, the officer seemed to believe him.

"Well, Mr. Blues," he said. "I still need your testimony. Those two "Nice Ladies" were picked up this morning with a pound of cocaine in their glove compartment. They fingered you, and said you must have planted it there."

Elwood looked genuinely surprised, his mouth wide open in shock.

"Officer, I had no idea."

"The two are known dealers. Working for Johnny the Dancer, out of L.A."

Elwood looked up at the officer, then removed his hat and sunglasses.

"And they seemed so nice. Such a shame to see two lost souls, like that." With that, Elwood made the sign of the cross, and began whispering the Lord's Prayer.

The officer took a deep breath, as he tried to avoid staring at the praying man behind the wheel. He felt a bit uncomfortable, and shifted in his shoes waiting for the "Amen."

The other officer returned, then leaned into the window.

"Mr. Blues. It seems you have a few unpaid parking tickets."

Elwood put his hat and glasses back on, bowed his head

"I've been meaning to pay them, sir, as soon as mother..."

"Ok, Mr. Blues." The first officer looked at his partner, and subtly shook his head. "We'll just take your testimony here, but we'd like a contact number for you in Memphis too."

Elwood played the game, providing everything the officers want, until they finally sent him on his way. He blessed them once again, as they bid him good luck with his old mother and the poor orphans he so lovingly looked after.

* * *

. 

_August 6__th__, 1978_

_Dear Jake,_

_We're on the road now, taking our time to get to San Diego. Seeing the country on the way._

_We played one night in St. Louis, and now we're in Memphis. Things are going great, except Steve got car sick._

_I was talking to the guys. You know how sometimes I get. We wonder what things are going to be like when computers start to take over. It will make life a whole lot harder. Even the fucking cops will have them in their cars. That's nothing I want to see._

_I'll write more as soon as I can._

_Your brother, _

_Elwood_

* * *

Author's note: Again, if you recognize the crossover, good for you. Otherwise, fugget-about-it! 


	7. The Gate Keepers

Saturday night, and Beale Street was alive with music and excitement. Elwood's heart was racing as he cruised down the road.

This is where it all started. Memphis was _The Home of the Blues. _The United States Congress had just passed an act saying so, in case there was a doubt in anybody's mind. He passed by a new plaque on the side of the road, letting tourists and locals alike know that this stretch of road was now a National Historic Landmark.

The thought of that designation made him proud, and sad, all at once. In twenty years, would there be nothing left of the blues, other than some old mural painted on a local post office wall? Would the plaques and sign posts be the only evidence of a golden age of American music? Slowly, he drove past the Drist Theater, already starting to suffer from the twin evils of neglect and abuse.

But right then, right now, it didn't matter. He was here, and this was where it all happened.

W. C. Handy... Rufus Thomas... Muddy Waters... Albert King...

The names of the Grand Masters of the Memphis Blues raced through his mind.

Howlin Wolf... Ike Turner...

The memories of the rhythms flowed over him, and overwhelmed him.

B.B. King... Rosco Gordon... Louis Armstrong...

He parked the Bluesmobile, and decided to walk, with his feet on sacred ground. Yet, it didn't feel like he ever touched the street. Instead, he was standing on the shoulders of giants.

And, oh, how Jake would love to be here, with him!

With a wallet filled with cash, courtesy of two drug dealers out of L.A., Elwood took in the town. The bars. The music shops. The nightlife. The Mississippi River. He even rented a little hotel room for himself, where he could sleep most of the day, and avoid the stifling August heat.

Every once in a while, as he combed the streets, the music overtook him. He'd break out into a little dance on the street, knees lifting high and arms flailing, if the music hit him just right. By the second day, local shopkeepers and musicians alike knew that when the tall skinny man in black walked by, it was their duty to open the doors of their hall, or strike up the instruments on the sidewalk, and try to make him burst into his frenzied routine. It became a local challenge, to test their musical skills.

Whenever he could, he'd join an impromptu jam session. He made a point to meet as many local musicians as possible, and play as much as he could. He loved to spend hours comparing musical styles, learning whatever he could about the differences - both subtle and jarring - between Chicago and Memphis style. He especially enjoyed the jug bands, when he could find someone still interested in the classics. The folk influence was unmistakable. Clean, almost pure. It was almost primitive.

And for all that he learned, he reciprocated by showing others his craft, and the wider range of notes of Chicago blues.

And, as far as Elwood would talk, he liked to talk about the band. And Jake. He especially loved telling people how he and Jake changed their names to "Blues" when they were just little boys. The women giggled at the story, and men laughed outright, at how Jake had even convinced the Penguin that it was a really good idea.

* * *

. 

"He ain't gonna learn how to spell his name, either," Jake would say at least once a week.

To that, the Penguin always would reply "He isn't, Jacob! He isn't going to learn..."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, sister!"

The Penguin would wrinkle up her nose at Jake's insolence, wrap his hands with a ruler, and stand firm in her refusal. Yet, the thought of two of her orphans leaving St. Helen's without even knowing how to spell their own last names was far too much to bear.

Jacob Papageorge? Perhaps she could understand why he never wrote his name, considering his difficulties with the written language. At least that part of the story was believable. But Elwood Delaney? And Elwood was a fair student! In fact, Sister Mary Stigmata knew that he could be an excellent student, if only he would apply himself. Somehow she didn't quite believe the story, especially since she knew Elwood had been writing his full name for at least five years before Jake's requests began.

"So, Jacob. Let me see if I understand you," she finally asked, after weeks and months of Jake's constant pleas. "You want me to allow you to legally change your last name?"

"Yes, sister."

"And you want me to also allow Elwood to change his as well."

"It would only be fair." With that, Jake even removed his sunglasses and hat, and looked up at the nun with big, pleading eyes.

"Because neither of you can actually spell your last names?"

"That's right."

"And you think, as nine and ten year old boys, that you are old enough to choose a name that will stay with you for the rest of your lives."

"Yes, sister."

"Oh? Well, then tell me, Jacob, what name have you chosen?" she asked, patronizing the ten year old boy.

"Blues."

"Blues? Jake and Elwood Blues?"

"Curtis said we had Blues in the blood, so I figure it should also be in our names, too."

* * *

. 

On the window, Jake noticed the handwritten sign. At first he thought it might be an announcement, or even the menu. He came in a little closer to read it.

_Stump the Blues Masters, Drink for Free._

So, this was the place. He'd heard about it several times, but only today decided to make his way in for the experience.

Inside, behind the bar, Elwood noticed five older men, seated on stools. The bartender moved around them, as not to disturb them in their work. The five sages, no doubt old musicians themselves, welcomed any and all questions about Blues music. After the question was asked, the panel would follow up with a few exchanges, stories, or facts flying back and forth across the bar. If they couldn't answer correctly, you would drink for free.

Questions were usually offered up by the foolish; those who believed that they possessed some nugget of knowledge that somehow escaped these five masters.

In a street filled with dozens of bars and clubs, they were a unique attraction that tourists and locals alike came to see. Where other bars had lived music, this bar had a living tribute to the music. It was a living museum of knowledge. A living, walking, breathing, and smoking museum of knowledge. They were the heartbeat of the bar, pumping words and tunes and lyrics back and forth like its lifeblood.

He wondered if they were paid to sit behind the bar, and share their wisdom. Or did they serve, just for the love of the music? For the duty of passing on the word and the tradition? Or did they do it because they could drink for free, too? And were there shifts of old sages? Did these five give up their seats, like the changing of the guard, to a fresh band of Blues Master Trivia Czars every few hours?

Anyway, he could see Curtis there, in his retirement, hanging out with these guys, just talking about the music all day long.

Elwood pulled out a stool in front of the bar, touched the brim of his hat and nodded, and respectfully smiled at the men in front of him. It was, indeed, a sign of respect. You don't see these kinds of guys anymore, except maybe in the basements of orphanages. And for Elwood, this was one opportunity to learn that he just couldn't pass up.

A tourist, pale and sweaty, waddled up to the bar. He wore a bright yellow polo shirt with Bermuda shorts. Elwood expected the tourist with the goofy smile next to him to ask if it was hot enough for him. Gratefully, he never did.

Elwood nodded at the bartender, and pointed to the tap. Then he turned his attention to the trivia round, and the emboldened tourist.

"So, I've got one for you..."

Elwood was a little surprised that the man in bermuda shorts had even heard of the blues, let alone could think up a question to challenge these fve men.

"Ok. What was the name of Elvis's favorite show that aired on WHBQ."

The five in front shook their heads, and pointed back and forth to one another. The tourist grew excited, thinking he had finally stumped them. He didn't realize they were silently fighting over which one of them would lower themselves to answer the question.

Finally, the frail one on the end answered.

"Dewey Phillip's _Red, White and Blue_. Boy, is that all you got?"

The tourist smirked, then shook his head, paying his tab in defeat. As he walked away, the five began to laugh and cackle and occasionally whistle.

_"Elvis?!"_

Elwood also laughed, although more subtly, and quietly under his breath.

"How about you, son?"

Elwood looked up, a bit surprised. He just shook his head, again, respectfully.

"Come on. Give us your best shot..."

"Do you know anything about the Blues, son?" the frail one asked.

"Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, I do. Blues is my last name."

With that, the men all broke out into hysterical fits of laughter at the young white boy's claim. Then in a twisted role reversal, one of the men began quizzing Elwood, trying to figure out what made him tick.

"Where are you from, son?"

"Chicago."

"On vacation?"

"A journey."

"What kind of journey?"

"A pilgrimage..." Elwood suggested, unsure.

"You play?"

"I blow. Harp..."

"Wait a minute. You're that white kid I've been hearing 'bout. Yeah! People are talking about you. Shit! You're a celebrity 'round here."

Elwood, for the first time in the week that he had been in Memphis, suddenly grew a little nervous. His escapades with federal officers, throwed rolls, and blonde drug dealers may eventually find him here, if he settled too long.

It was getting time to move on. He'd leave today, after his beer.

"All right," Elwood finally said. "I got one for you."

Three of the men whistled, egging him on.

"Ok! Give us your best shot!" the one in the middle replied.

"New York Blues band. Tell me, who was the lead singer for _7 Line Blues_?"

There was a moment of silence. It wasn't the silence that followed the waddling tourist. It was pure silence, accompanied by genuine looks of confusion and shock.

"Who the hell is that?" the middle one finally asked.

"That's what I'm asking you," Elwood responded, sipping at his beer.

"Never heard of no band like that."

"They're out of New York," Elwood clarified, perhaps unnecessarily.

"New York? Shit!"

"Shit... that's no question..." another one of the masters chimed in.

"Why not?" Elwood replied.

"You may as well ask us who played the guitar at Franklin High School Senior Prom last year... in Bucksnort, Tennessee!"

"It's a legitimate question. They've got a record out," Elwood said, respectfully. "They played the Bottom Line, man... Either you know it, or you don't. Right?" He followed the statement with a shrug.

After a moment, the frail one simply said "Shit!" Then he laughed at the question. Then he laughed at Elwood. And then he laughed at himself.

"Franklin Jones," Elwood said, finally.

The men all looked back and forth at one another, shaking their heads and accepting defeat. Maybe they could have worked it out, but Elwood thought that they secretly enjoyed losing, just this once. Maybe they liked the idea of being stumped every once in a while by some stranger - especially by some white boy from Chicago with the last name of Blues. Anyway, it kept things real, it kept people coming in, and it kept the music in motion.

Elwood accepted his free beer, made a toast to the music, and enjoyed his drink in the presence of the Grand Gate Keepers of Tradition.

But he also knew it was finally his time to move on.


	8. Remembering King

**_Warning: Harsh and uncomfortable language in places._**

* * *

Elwood spread the new map out on the hood of the Bluesmobile. California was two days away. It was almost two thousand miles from Memphis to San Diego, if he made a straight path for it.

San Diego. Why the hell did he say he was going to San Diego? Of all the places in the world. And how was he going to explain to Jake why it took him so long? He'd know something was up. Just a letter postmarked from San Diego, and the web of lies would stay intact. But if he took too long, it could fall apart.

The first few letters that he wrote to Jake were filled with white lies. They were well intentioned, only meant to give him hope. Jake needed something to keep him going in the joint. Anyway, how could he tell him that his little brother just couldn't keep the band together? He'd let Jake down.

He wondered if Curtis or the Penguin ever wrote to Jake. He knew Jake wouldn't write back, even if they did. It would take a whole lot of love to write those letters, with nothing in return. That's why Elwood knew he had to keep writing.

He frowned a little at the map, then decided that, like everything else in his life, it would just have to work its way out, somehow.

And San Diego could wait.

But before he left Memphis, Elwood had one last stop to make.

* * *

"They'll probably turn this place into a stupid museum, someday."

Elwood stood motionless in front of the beat up 1968 black Fleetwood Cadillac he affectionately called _The Bluesmobile_. Behind dark sunglasses, he watched the tourists gather around the gates of the white mansion, leaving notes, flowers, and tokens of their affection. Like him, they were on their own journeys. They were making their own pilgrimages.

The traffic did not let up for a moment. Cars slowed down as they passed by. The city even had extra traffic police on duty, to keep the cars in motion.

Was this what it was all about? Pale tourists in Bermuda shorts driving by the houses of the dead?

Many criticized Elvis Presley. After all, if he had been black, no one would have called him_ The King_. Certainly, there were lots of other musicians in Memphis, Tennessee who deserved the honor even more. But here it was. Graceland. The home of _The King of Rock and Roll_.

Even if Elvis wasn't the grand master of music, he was still a vessel which brought the blues to America. Some even said he brought colored music into the homes of every white person in the country.

But then again, the blues that Elvis brought home to mainstream America was far removed from the ghettos. It was far enough removed that it could be repackaged and served out on a platter to the heartland of America.

Elwood wondered whether Beale Street, the heart and soul of Memphis, would soon be sanitized, repackaged, and served out to the tourists, too. Soon, the National Historic Landmark would be just another tourist attraction on a map. Instead of the living, breathing lifeline to the music and culture of Memphis, would Beale Street turn into a cold museum exhibit?

It didn't seem right. Why him? Why was Elvis the one to make popular the music that poured out of the ghettos of America? Why was Elvis the one bringing black culture into people's homes?

At the orphanage where Elwood and his big brother Jake grew up, the nuns frowned upon most music. If it wasn't a hymn, or classical music written by a dead guy in a frilly shirt, they tried to keep it out of the building. But on the streets when a car passed by, or through the doors of the corner store, you could always hear The King. Elvis was everywhere.

But Curtis, the janitor, took Jake and Elwood under his wing. He was the closest to a father they would ever have. And Curtis taught them about the real musical giants. Down in his tiny boiler room apartment, Curtis would play the old recordings of blues legends like Elmore James, or W. C. Handy. That was real music. That was the blues.

Maybe America loved Elvis because he was the American Dream. Poor kid makes it big. Poor kid grows up to be the King. Maybe not the President, but the King. Poor kid makes it big, but still finds no hope. The King kills himself while on the throne...

Elwood shook that image out of his mind. Instead, he looked around nervously at the tourists and crying women kneeling at the gates.

Was this America? Pale and plump, and mourning their king not even one year gone?

Then the thought struck him. He wondered where it came from, and why it never occurred to him before.

"Is this what we're doing? Jake and me?" he thought, a bit worried. "Are we just repackaging the blues?"

"No. We are different." he tried to convince himself. "We're not like Elvis. We've been exploited, all our lives. Will be till the day we die. Jake's wasting away in the slammer. I've got no mansion."

"Anyway, we're not really white, Jake and me." He sighed, in relief.

But then he realized something. Elvis wasn't white either. At least, not at first.

* * *

"All right boys. Tell me what happened," Curtis asked the two children seated in front of him.

Jake and Elwood slumped in their seats, visibly uncomfortable. Elwood, in particular, seemed to be in pain. Judging from the open wound on his lip and the bandage on his temple, it wasn't surprising. His sunglasses, smashed to pieces earlier that morning, were noticeably absent.

"Now, you wouldn't tell Sister Mary what happened," Curtis reasoned with the two. "But you can tell me, now."

Jake and Elwood looked at each other and they exchanged uncomfortable looks. Neither spoke up.

Curtis got up and found a bottle of soda pop, then poured it into two separate glasses for the two boys. Even though they were getting older, and had their own means of getting their hands on an increasing number of things, a glass of Coca-Cola was still a treat.

"Was it over a girl?"

In unison, the two boys responded.

"Yes!" Jake said. Elwood protested with a soft "no."

"It seems we have a little bit of a disagreement here. One of you want to change your story?"

The two brothers turned and faced each other. Nervous, Jake drank quickly, as a way to delay the inevitable. Elwood, after watching Jake drink, handed his brother his own share of the beverage.

"Come on, now! This is the fourth time, Jake, and the second time, Elwood, that you two got into a fight with those boys from Denton Academy!"

Curtis was concerned, for many reasons. There was an age difference between his two boys and the boys from the private High School. Elwood, thin and gangly, and barely 12 years old, was probably lucky to still be walking.

But that wasn't his real concern. Curtis was worried that fighting would be a way of life for his two boys.

"Did they try to take something from you."

"NO!" Jake insisted, as Elwood nodded his head up and down in agreement.

"Boys... something is going on here. And I don't like it one bit. Now you can hide it from the sisters, but not from me. There're no secrets down here. It's just you, and me, and the boiler."

The two boys remained slouched, and increasingly more uncomfortable.

"Elwood." Curtis turned his attention to the younger one, guessing he would be the first to yield under pressure. "Did they say something bad about Jake?"

Elwood looked up at Jake, as if wanting confirmation.

"No, son. Look at me. Not him. Did they say something bad about Jake?"

"No." Elwood said, quietly, biting his wounded lip, then sucking on the wound to stop the bleeding of the newly opened flesh.

"About you?"

The sucking continued, until it was visibly hurting him to continue.

"About the sisters? One of the other boys here?"

Elwood shook his head, almost violently, as if he was going to either explode in anger, or break down in tears. Jake put one hand on his shoulder, which Elwood roughly shrugged off.

"About your parents?"

"Curtis!" Jake finally yelled, out of pure desperation. "They called you a worthless old nigger!"

As Elwood's face wrinkled up, in anger and anguish, Jake cut himself off. The room grew deathly silent, broken only by Curtis' sigh as he leaned back into his chair.

Finally, he simply said "I see."

"We couldn't let them say those things about you, Curtis!" Jake added, his voice almost cracking.

"Why not? They're right, you know."

Jake and Elwood looked at each other, their mouths open in shock. Then they looked at Curtis.

"To those rich kids, to all rich folk, that's all I am, you know?"

"But, but, it's not true! It ain't right!" Elwood argued, a bead of blood growing on his lip.

"Sure thing, but that's how it is. You know, they want to see you fail, and go bad, and get violent. All of us. Makes them feel better about themselves. So, it's you boys' job not to fail! Right?"

"Turn the other cheek, Curtis?" Jake asked, sarcastically.

Curtis pointed to the wall behind where the boys were seated. The wall was covered by photographs of great men.

"You see those men, behind you, Jake? The Reverend? JFK? Bobby?"

"Malcolm?" Jake added. Curtis silenced him with a stare.

"Those men. They're out there, working and fighting... for people like you and me. They're trying to convince folks out there that we're all the same. Fighting for our rights. Some even lost their lives doin' it! So show a little respect."

Jake looked down at the floor, a bit ashamed.

"Don't look down at the ground, Jake. Look up at those photos. You see, they fight with their words. With their actions. Not with their fists. You best learn something from that."

"Fighting for people, like us?" Elwood asked, confused, still processing Curtis' earlier words of social commentary.

"That's right. Like all of us. The ones on the bottom, Elwood! Cause, you know, that's what it means to be black. Shoot. It ain't about the color of your skin, son! You know that! That's just something easy for rich folks to pick on."

In the orphanage, you weren't a color. You were just another orphan. You were a lousy cot assignment. Even in church, you were only one of His flock. Out there? You were one of the have-nots, in a world full of haves. But it was all the same.

"Now," Curtis continued. "You figure out a way to spread that word, and then..! _Then_ you'll be doing me a favor. All of us."

"But Curtis. I ain't no JFK..." Elwood said, apologetically.

"Son, you can always spread the word, one person at a time. Shoot. Spread the word one song at a time."

* * *

Elwood got back into the Bluesmobile, and opened up his map of Memphis. He wasn't exactly sure where his next stop was, but he wasn't leaving Memphis without finding it.

He drove through Memphis, asking for directions as best he could. He took in the sights, and watched people as he drove by. He shuffled through the AM radio stations, looking for some decent music.

Finally he saw it up ahead. The Lorraine Motel.

The hotel was just like he remembered it, except now it was in color. The hotel sign. The box architecture. The balconies. He remembered the balcony.

There were no crowds. There were no traffic cops camped out in the parking lot. There were no pale white tourists in shorts with cameras. The remains of a single wreath hung from one of the guard rails on a corner balcony. It looked like it had been there for about a week.

It was all painfully obvious. The waddling tourists in Memphis had made their pilgrimages. But they were all paying their respects to the wrong King.

They cried at the gates of The King who took his own life. Why didn't they cry underneath the balcony of the King who fell to a bullet, fired in hate? They flocked to the one who found the American Dream and let it slip away. Had they forgotten the one who had a dream, and a dream that really could have made a difference?

"This would make a great museum, someday," Elwood thought.

Elwood pulled into the parking lot, got out and stood in front of the caddy. He removed his hat, and bowed his head. He wanted to sing a song in tribute to the Reverend, but he was at a lost for words.

Instead, he pulled his harmonica out of his pocket, and began to play a slow version of _Amazing Grace_.

When he finished, he noticed a few others had gathered with him in silent remembrance. Perhaps his music made a difference, at least for that one single moment.

He surveyed the hotel, once again. The scene was almost like he remembered it, depicted on the news, on that little black and white tv. He remembered how he and a few other boys snuck down into Curtis' room that night, back in 1968. Elwood was a maturing teen by then - tall, with a deepening voice. Still, he sat silently at Curtis' feet as they all watched the news of the Reverend's assassination.

Jake wasn't there. He was already sent away to a correctional facility for teens. And Elwood was always convinced that Jake was the lucky one.

Jake never had to sit and watch Curtis break down and cry.

* * *

Just as he approached the city limits, Elwood stopped at a corner mailbox, and dropped a single postcard in the slot.

_August 12, 1978_

_Dear Curtis,_

_I found myself in Memphis, and I paid my respects at The Lorraine. _

_I played "Amazing Grace" for the Reverend. _

_And I played it for you._

_Elwood_


	9. The Riders

The ride south out of Memphis felt longer than it really was. He'd left Memphis late enough that by the time he reached Jackson, Mississippi, it was already dark. He wasn't sure if he was going to spend the night, or if he would keep on moving. He pulled up in front of the jail, stepped out of the car, and leaned his back against it. He observed from across the street.

Back in 1961, he was too young - or too uninterested - to understand what Curtis meant by _The Freedom Riders_. A bunch of whites and blacks, on buses, riding south to New Orleans to fight for desegregation? In the orphanage, in Chicago, that all seemed so far away. Almost like another planet. In his little corner of the world, in the orphanage, there was nothing but blacks and whites bunking and eating and bathing and praying together. That was completely normal. That's the way it worked. He didn't understand how anyone could see it differently.

Like Curtis, Jake complained about everything he was seeing on the news too. He even got his hand rapped by a ruler for swearing about the Klan in front of the Penguin. It confused Elwood, thinking he was being hit for hating the Klan -which he thought was ok- and not for the choice words he used about them. It was only later, when he overheard Curtis mumble the same exact thing (when he thought no one was listening, of course) that he finally figured it out.

Standing in front of the jail, just for a few minutes, he felt a little sick. Jake was in a jail, hundreds of miles away. But not for the same reasons that these people were thrown in the clink, back in 1961. Even Elwood had been in the slammer a few times, but for minor offenses.

If those damn state troopers decided to come any closer and check out his licence plate number, he probably would be right back in there again.

Would it be worth it, to give himself up, just to sit in the same jail cell that those activists did, so long ago?

Elwood knew the answer. And he felt a little ashamed.

Elwood thought about how insignificant his life was turning out to be. Those riders were on a mission. Riding for civil rights. For liberty. For all those things that everyone in the United States of America deserved.

He was on a mission to send his brother a fucking post card.

He waved at one of the State Troopers, just once. He was barely visible in the dark night, but he waved back, suspiciously. That's when he got back in the Bluesmobile and headed west.

* * *

. 

After a quick shower and some bread, he climbed into the back of the Bluesmobile in a truck stop just inside the Texas border on I-20 West. He brushed a few pieces of paper and an 8-track cassette aside, and settled in for a few hours sleep.

By the time he woke at first light, he felt well rested. After a great week in Memphis, after a few key stops on his tour of the American Civil Rights movement, and with one last stop in Dallas to make, he felt like the trip was finally beginning to make some sense.

See the United States. See where we have been, and how far we've come.

It's all right here, in America. The home of the 440 cubic inch plant engine.

He sat up, and looked around for that pad of paper that he had picked up from that hotel the night he left Chicago. He had a few more stamps and envelopes left. He decided to write another letter.

* * *

_August 13, 1978_

_Dear Curtis,_

_I bet you never expected to get so many letters from me. But I don't think Jake would understand, the way you do._

_I stood in front of the jail in Jackson, Mississippi. The cops made me uncomfortable, and I didn't want to wait too long to explain. _

_I decided to skip New Orleans. Last time Jake and I were there, we got into some mess. I didn't want to take my chances._

* * *

He'd finish after the next stop. He placed the pen and paper down, and noticed out of the corner of his eye another piece of paper. It was that letter he hadn't bothered to send yet. 

He picked it up, and despite his better judgement, read it again.

"_I guess that god forsaken shit hole you're in is better than me. Sorry you had to learn what a scum bag I really am."_

The anger and pain were clear as glass on that piece of paper. He was still angry at her for standing him up, almost three weeks earlier. He almost forgot about it, except for when he was obsessing about it. He debated whether to send the letter.

"_I stole a car for you, just to buy you that fucking ticket. I probably would have done anything for you. And I'd wind up in the joint, probably."_

"Jake, you fucking idiot," he thought, all of a sudden. "Robbing that store just to get money for the band?"

But he knew he wasn't so different. You do things like that for the things that matter, and for the people you care about. For the people you love.

You rob stores. You rob gas. You take the rap for your brother and friends. You drive into Klan country on a desegregated Greyhound bus. You wave at state troopers in front of a jail, even when you're wanted.

You steal a car to buy someone a one way ticket out of the African Republic of Mmbito.

You drive thousands of miles to San Diego to mail a fucking postcard.

He couldn't figure out where hot rolls flying through a cafeteria fit into that equation, but he was sure they did.

Elwood got behind the wheel, and started up the car. That unsent letter to her was still in his hand, as he tried to decide whether or not he should send it.

He turned on the radio, and listened to the news. He wondered if there was any more information on the rebel activities in Mmbito.

By the time he reached Dallas, the letter had long been crumbled up and tossed out the window, while driving 55 miles an hour.

* * *

.

He was probably no more than ten years old. He circled Elwood like a buzzard, as he looked up at him. He seemed a bit puzzled about he tall man in a black suit, hat and glasses. Why was he standing motionless in the center of the Plaza, staring at grass?

The boy kicked Elwood's leg, then jumped back when Elwood reacted, crying out with a subdued "Oww."

The boy bounced around a bit, nervously.

"Sorry, Mister! I thought you was a statue or something!" He had a northern accent, which Elwood hadn't heard in almost two weeks.

Elwood reached down to the boys shoulder, stopping his nervous jumping, and turned him towards the grass. He kept his hand on his shoulder for a minute, letting him know that he should stay still, and be respectful.

"What you looking at, Mister?"

"History," Elwood responded, after a moment of thought. "Shouldn't you be in church, or something, kid?"

"Don't have to go today, mom says. We're on vacation."

Elwood simply nodded in acknowledgment. The two figures stood and stared at the grass in silence for a minute, until a woman came from behind, shrieking in relief.

"There you are, Martin! Don't you walk away from me like that again!" She grabbed his arm, angry, and gave Elwood a very suspicious look. She dragged the boy away, as he asked her questions. Elwood could barely make out her replies as they faded out of earshot.

"President Kennedy... He was shot here... People come here to mourn... That's why he's all in black..."

* * *

Elwood stood directly underneath a series of_ Wanted_ posters. He quickly scanned the wall, to check and make sure his own face wasn't there. Relieved, he pulled out the piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He leaned on the counter of the El Paso Post Office, and finished his letter to Curtis. 

_Got into Dallas on Sunday. I saw the grassy knoll. Even on a Sunday, there were people paying their respects. Even kids, Curtis. They are learning too, like you taught us._

_I'll be cutting through New Mexico, then Arizona. I'm off to San Diego. There's nothing I want to see, really, but I promised Jake I'd send him a letter when I got there._

_Elwood_


	10. The Bus

"It's too damn hot for this black suit," Elwood thought, as he left the post office and walked out into the El Paso street. Even at 9 am, it must have been 100 degrees. He took his jacket off and folded it over his arm. At least the dark sunglasses were useful in the strong sun.

Elwood looked around at his surroundings. El Paso was a whole different world. He looked at the buildings, but his attention kept turning to the cars. More pick up trucks, he figured, than most places he knew. And the bumper stickers were in some sort of code. Lots of abbreviations, like _AIM, BLM, BIA_, and _FBI_. At least Elwood recognized that last one. Yes, he knew that one, too well.

Back at the Bluesmobile, Elwood opened the door and tossed his jacket onto the back seat. The car was steaming, even though he'd left the windows open.

"You're gonna miss your bus."

Elwood looked up to see a tall, dark skinned man leaning against a pick up truck parked in front of him. He stood much the same way that Elwood would, back leaned up against the Caddy. Only this stranger didn't slouch so much. And instead of a black fedora, he wore a large beige cowboy hat. But in a battle between Cowboys and Indians, it was clear that this man wasn't on John Wayne's side.

Elwood looked at him, shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head gently, as if asking "What?"

"Your bus. It's leaving in a few minutes."

"Sorry, man," Elwood responded. "You got the wrong dude."

"Don't think so."

The tall man folded his arms in front of his chest and looked around, as if barely noticing the man in a black suit. Elwood, however, couldn't help but notice him.

"You with the CIA?" the man in the cowboy hat asked.

Dressed as he was, Elwood got that quite often. Still, no matter how many times he heard it, the question always seemed ridiculous.

"Nope."

"So then, you must be MIB," the man said confidently. Elwood curled one side of his lip up, in a slightly quizzical manner.

"Hey, man. What's it with all the letters around here?"

"What letters?"

"All the letters. They're everywhere. CIA. MIB. AIM..." Elwood pointed out a bumper sticker as a van drove by.

"AIM?" the man asked, as he unfolded his arms from across his chest. He turned, showing Elwood the words printed on his white t-shirt.

_"Free Leonard Peltier."_

"Who the hell is that?" Elwood asked, confused.

The darker man shook his head.

"Pine Ridge?"

Elwood shook his head back.

"Anglos never listen to the news, do they?"

"I guess not."

"Read the papers?"

"Nope." Elwood agreed. "We don't even know where The African Republic of Mmbito is."

The man in the t-shirt turned to Elwood, and squinted his eyes just a little. A small smile emerged.

"Well, I'd say that it was in Africa."

"Yeaah-up."

Realizing the absurdity of the conversation, Elwood joined his new conversation partner, leaning back on the truck with him. The two stood there, looking out into the street, staring at nothing in particular.

"You're still gonna miss your bus."

"I got my own car, man." Elwood said, pointing his thumb at the Caddy.

After a moment's silence, the man in the cowboy hat finally answered an earlier question.

"American Indian Movement."

Elwood nodded slowly, thinking it over. AIM. After another moment, he simply asked "BIA?"

"Bureau of Indian Affairs... BLM? Bureau of Land Management. Might as well all be FBI. All your Bureaus are the same."

"What are you, man? Some kind of Apache Warrior?" Elwood asked, innocently.

Without turning, the man in the cowboy hat responded with his own question.

"What are you? Some kind of black guy?" The tall stranger meant it to point out the dangers of lumping everyone together. After all, to him, one American was just like any other, right?

Elwood shrugged, and offered an unexpected answer. "Well, I guess so. Sort of."

The response took his new companion off guard. Realizing this wasn't the typical Anglo, driving a big black Cadillac with Illinois license plates, he seemed to loosen up. But only just a little.

"Tewa."

Elwood wasn't sure, but he assumed that the man was telling him the name of a tribe. But it could have been his name, for all he knew. Unsure what to say in response, Elwood simply offered up the name of his own tribe.

"Blues."

"You'll want to get to the station," the man said after a moment of silent contemplation. "The bus leaves in twenty minutes."

"Why do I need a bus, man?" Elwood asked, getting a little annoyed. "I got my Caddy, right there."

The two stood silent again. Finally, Elwood broke the silence.

"Who's Leonard ...?" Elwood hesitated, then he tried to get a look at the shirt again.

"Peltier. Leonard Peltier. Your FBI says he killed one of them. On Pine Ridge."

"Oh yeah?"

"They put him in jail."

Elwood nodded. Now, getting nailed was something he knew all about. Even if he couldn't identify the specific tribes of the Southwest, he knew all about unfortunate incarcerations. And seeing as how the FBI was also after him at that very moment, he surely could relate.

"Did he do it?"

"Nope. They lied."

Elwood nodded again, thinking about something Jake once told Curtis.

"You know," he said, as dry as a piece of white toast. "It's a sin to bear false witness."

"Forked tongue," the darker man corrected. "Least that's what you Anglos think we'd say, anyway."

"Jive talk," Elwood added, maybe to prove a point.

The man in the cowboy hat looked around. He focused mainly on the windows of a few of the office buildings across the street.

"The FBI, they are everywhere, now. Wherever there's an Indian, they're watching. Think we're planning something..."

"Yeaah-up." Elwood responded, now also nervously looking around.

"Don't worry. They don't care about an Anglo, like you."

"Sure they do. At least when you punch one of them." Elwood shrugged, pushing his sunglasses further up the ridge of his nose. "Like, let's say, in a bar...in St. Louis…" he added, hypothetically speaking.

That remark made the man in the cowboy hat lean away slightly, to get a better view of Elwood.

"What?" Elwood added, defensively. "He pissed me off, man."

"In that case, you better leave soon. They're everywhere."

"Yeaah-up."

Elwood thought about that fed he knocked out, back in St. Louis. Maybe he was safe, and they weren't really after him like he thought. Maybe he'd gotten away with it. Anyway, the chances of the feds tracking him down again, here in El Paso, were astronomically small. Still, this world was filled with unlikely coincidences. So, with an awkward smile and a hesitant wave goodbye, Elwood moved on.

* * *

"You've got to be shitting me!" Elwood said to himself, his jaw dropping open. Finally, he slowed the Caddy down to a near crawl.

The bus station was crowded. He'd seen crowds before, but not like this. There must have been two hundred of them in that parking lot. Two hundred men, all dressed just like Elwood. Even in the heat, they all wore black suits, a black hat and a pair of black sunglasses. There were several charter buses, too, waiting for their passengers to board. Elwood imagined that he'd stumbled into the biggest Blues Concert ever.

"No wonder he thought I was looking for a bus..."

Elwood pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. He jumped out, grabbing his jacket, and headed towards the first group of men in the crowd. Although excited, he calmly approached them. They all acknowledged each other, standing almost motionless in the heat.

Elwood looked around, and noticed no one had their instruments out. It seemed a bit odd. In fact, the longer he waited, the odder the whole situation became.

"Where you guys headed to?" Elwood finally asked.

"New Mexico," one man answered. He was tall, lean, and dark haired. He could have been Elwood's long lost twin. And with orphans like Elwood, you never can tell.

"New Mexico? For a blues concert?"

"No. For the crash."

"A car crash?" Elwood asked, puzzled. At least cars made sense in his world.

"No. The crash. The UFO." Elwood's twin looked back at him, equally puzzled.

"UFO?" Confused, he became defensive. "What are you? Putting me on?"

He scanned the crowd. There they were. Hundreds of men in black suits. He even noticed a woman or two. Finally, he noticed the signs on the charter buses.

_**Second Annual MIB Convention**_

_**Roswell, New Mexico**_

_**August 15-20, 1978**_

"MIB?" Elwood asked, scratching his head. Again with the letters.

"Men in Black," the twin responded, confused that he had to do so. "You know. The aliens, who dress like CIA agents. To steal evidence of UFOs. Take everything you've got."

Elwood thought about his Tewa friend and the letters. _CIA. BIA. FBI. AIM. MIB._ All the same. They get what they want, by any means.

As he looked around, he thought about how he could easily disappear in a crowd like this. It was the best camouflage he could ever imagine.

He imagined the feds moving in, flashing badges at random members of the group. He pictured them inspecting the I.D. cards of dozens of other men, but walking straight past him when the time came.

All of a sudden, Elwood heard his brother Jake's voice in his mind.

_"Jeez, Elwood! You've got to be kidding me!" _

_"What?"_ Elwood thought back to his brother.

_"You think that fed is still following you? Come on! He hasn't thought of you for a week! Stop being so damn paranoid."_

Elwood looked around. If they had been musicians, he might have made the trip, just to be a part of a band again. Jake would understand that. Even now, spending a few days on a charter bus with these guys was oddly appealing. After all, they were also making a pilgrimage. Only they were going to see an old UFO crash site in some backwater of New Mexico.

For a moment he thought that it was no stranger than staring at the mansion of the king of rock and roll, or a hotel balcony where someone was shot.

_"Tell me you're shitting me, Elwood,"_ Jake said, again in Elwood's mind. _"You are comparing Martin Luther King Jr... to a UFO filled with Martians? Curtis would kick your skinny ass clear cross town."_

_"No he wouldn't,"_ Elwood said, defending his own thoughts. But Elwood was lying to himself, and he knew it.

_"Yes he would..."_

"_Nope."_

_"Listen. You're not gonna get on no bus with a bunch of space ship chasing wieners! Not while your brother is rotting away in the joint! Man, I'm dying here!"_

Thinking about his brother Jake, he remembered why he was there in the first place. Jake needed him.

_"Elwood! You told me you'd write to me. You said you'd tell me all about that gig you got! The one in San Diego…"_

_"Stop bullshitting me. You ain't waiting for no postcards, Jake,"_ Elwood thought back again. _"You can barely read."_

_"Maybe not. But, Jesus Christ, Elwood! I need you to send me some money! I'm out of smokes! Come on! I'm dying in here!"_

Maybe it was the heat getting to him, but Elwood smiled, thinking about the make believe conversation that he and his brother were having inside his head.

Jake needed him. Even if it was just for some cash to buy some cigarettes.

When he left Chicago and started his road trip across the country, Elwood told himself he wouldn't go back until he figured his life out. Standing in the bus station in El Paso, surrounded by a bunch of Men in Black, he finally did.

_"Okay, Jake. Hold on. I'm coming. You'll get your letter soon."_

After all, that's what his life was about. Being there for his brother Jake.

You did all sorts of crazy things for the people you love. You robbed and cheated and got into bar fights. You held up gas stations. You postponed trips to alien crash sites, even if it was the best way to hide out from the feds. You lied to your brother, and told him the band was still together. You had to lie, to give him hope while he was locked up in the slam. You had to tell him something was waiting for him when he got out.

Then you spent a month driving around the country, just to send him letters to prove you were really on the road, out on tour.

And you knew for sure that he loved you back, when you realized that your letters really did keep him going.

Well, it was either the letters, or the money you included for those cheap cigarettes.


	11. To San Diego

You don't drive a ten year old Cadillac through the desert in the middle of August while the sun is out. You wait until nightfall, and drive when the both the sun and temperature dip down enough to make the journey bearable.

What could have, and what should have been, an eight hour drive straight through stretched out over two nights.

Elwood found a few empty air conditioned corners in Tucson to spend some time away from the brutal August sun. He huddled up in an empty corner of a big hotel lobby, acting as if he was waiting for a friend to come down from their room for a drink at the bar. He made a few unofficial purchases The Broadway in Park Place Mall, and found a few empty mattresses in houseware shops that needed testing out. Somehow he'd manage to get enough sleep to keep him driving through the midnight hours.

And then there was the free parking at the newly opened Pima Air and Space Museum.

Elwood jumped at the chance. He loved learning about and experiencing examples of American technology and ingenuity. He toured the museum, soaking in the details of the airplanes and rockets and space aged technology brought to life at the museum for an easy admission price of $2.

The tour guide then asked him if he'd like to continue the tour and see the "Boneyard." For an additional $2, he could tour by bus a wide array of American Air Force planes and equipment as they were maintained, repaired, and housed when not in use. He nodded that he would, but realizing it was part of the nearby Air Force Base, he decided against it, in case they required a background check or asked for identification upon entry.

It made him a little sad, but he tried not to dwell on it. Thinking of all the opportunities he'd missed because of his criminal record wouldn't turn back the clock now, would it?

It also made him sad thinking it was the second interesting bus ride he would have to pass up over the past twenty four hours.

As the museum closed for the evening, he got back in the Bluesmobile. It would soon be dark, and much cooler. Just right for travelling.

Once again, it was time to move on.

* * *

. 

He remembered the time, fifteen years earlier, when the boys at St. Helen's were brought to the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry. He stood in awe of the nuclear missile, and marvelling the technology involved in constructing a silo.

"Jake, someday, I want to make one of those," Elwood pointed, and whispered to his brother as the boys were escorted around the facilities.

"Come on, Elwood. Where you going to make one? In the bathtub?"

Elwood gave Jake a disapproving look that made his ten year old face look far older than it was.

"Why're you always so negative, Jake? Don't you wanna do anything?"

"Yeah. Come on." Jake immediately pulled Elwood away with him, into the next wing, where they spray painted choice words of team spirit for the Chicago Cubs on the U-505. Although they were never caught, the Penguin made a point to chastise the entire orphanage in the next school publication.

Elwood never lost the bug for all things mechanical. He excelled at working with his hands, making gadgets go, and fiddling with science and technology. It was the only thing at school that ever kept his attention, or kept him focused. Even the assorted factory jobs he'd take (but never kept) tied back to some form of technical details that, at least for a few weeks, kept his mind and fingers occupied. But ultimately, he'd always channel that fascination for mechanical engineering through the greatest tribute to American technology the world had ever seen: _The Automobile._

For some reason, he thought about his old jobs back in Chicago. Maybe he could get a job at the Taser factory, again. Or maybe he could find another stint at a local repair shop.

The fact that he was thinking ahead like this made him smile a little. It meant he was really on his way home from this road trip.

* * *

It was close to midnight. Despite the many naps he had stolen throughout the day, he was getting tired. He flipped over to AM radio, perhaps to catch some news.

He let out a skeptical "Hmph!" at the first news story. The House approved a deadline extension for the Equal Rights Amendment.

"Equal rights?" Elwood shook his head.

A new study linked caffeine use to birth defects. a new court ruling for proposed busing for Columbus, Ohio school district. Tom Brokaw reviewed the House Assassinations Committee investigation of the Reverend King's murder, with testimonies by confessed killer James Earl Ray. A new public works strike in Memphis, and what it's effect would be on tourists coming to city for commemoration of Elvis' death.

Elwood let out another "Hmpf" as he listened to the filler pieces about a new "Elvis Economy" in Memphis, and the excited babble of a woman who confessed that she would buy anything about Elvis that she could possibly get her hands on.

He imagined the woman, all of five foot tall and two hundred pounds, standing in front of one of the souvenir shops set up across from mansion. She must be wearing bermuda shorts and an ugly shirt. He imagined her chubby fingers snatching up postcards, key chains, and a wind up snow globe with Elvis gyrating in the bubble to the tinny sound of _Blue Christmas_.

_And in International News, after almost five weeks of protests and rioting, peace has once again been restored to the African Republic of Mmbito, when Parliament agreed to veto the purchase of ten thousand acres of National Forest by multinational giant Mardesco. The weeks of protests and civil disobedience have cause over $8 million dollars in damages, and left 82 people dead. The nation will appeal to the World Bank for..._

Elwood switched off the radio. He had heard enough.

* * *

. 

He wasn't sure how, but San Diego was hotter than El Paso or Tucson. Still, he didn't mind standing in the heat in front of the souvenir shop, looking for the perfect post card. Eyeing the big blonde in a tiny red bikini on the beach, he smiled and happily paid the quarter.

Jake would love it.

* * *

. 

_August 16, 1978_

_Dear Jake,_

_How are you doing? I'm real tired lately. It's been a crazy few weeks, on the road, then here in San Diego. It's been so busy, I hardly had a chance to think. _

_The gig was great. Lots of blondes, Jake. That's the one thing California's good for. Lots of them. All tits and ass, too. Three gigs a week, and all the drinks and tits you could handle._

_But the band decided to bail out early. Too many assholes in bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirts trying to run the show. So the band's heading back home._

_Don't worry. They promised they'd get together again. Can't live without the music._

_I got into a barfight, and knocked some guy out. It surprised everyone, especially Willie. He didn't think I had it in me. Neither did I. He bought me drinks for about a week. _

_I'll probably be back in Chicago by the time you get this letter. _

_Your brother, _

_Elwood_

* * *

. 

Instead of slipping it into the mail slot, he went up to the counter and handed it to the postal worker.

"Could you make sure the post mark is clear on that?" The postal worker was a little suspicious, but she complied.

"Thank you, M'am," Elwood said, politely, as he touched the brim of his hat and turned to go.


	12. Sweet Home, Chicago

The ride back to Chicago took longer than expected. But these things always did. He revisited some of the old haunts in Los Angeles, from back when the band really played here that one time. It wasn't the same, all alone.

By Las Vegas, Elwood had run out of money. It took a whole day to figure out the safest ways to rectify the situation. And in a place like Vegas, the answer was always the same.

Tourists.

A few watches. A couple of wallets. He liked jewelry the most, since it often required getting close to a lady or two. Well, the enjoyment factor depended on the lady. He learned that the hard way.

He even took in a show or two. The little blonde showgirl, Starlet Wild, was exceptionally good. He thought about meeting her after the show, but she looked like the kind of girl who'd shack up with a mobster or two. Best keep away from the mob, he always thought. There was crime, and then there was crime.

Leaving the mountains and heading into the plains offered a nice long stretch of straight and easy driving. But the ride between Denver and Lincoln was painfully boring. By the time he drove past Des Moines, he had already started composing music in his head, since the radio was filled with nothing but country and western crap. And going on into week four, the same old 8 track tapes were nearly about to snap. He wasn't sure if that was from the summer heat, or from use, abuse, and overuse.

Either way, he was glad to finally roll into Chicago again.

Everything on Van Buren seemed to be the same. The trains were still running. The corner bakery was still closed by 6 pm. Even that fucking red Chevy was there, parked in his parking spot again.

Back in February, he started breaking into that damned Chevy and removing the radio, just to annoy whoever owned it. It became a running joke, as each night he removed the radio, and just left it there on the floor in front of the passenger side seat. A few times, the driver refused to put it back in. But after a few weeks, when he'd replace it again, Elwood would once again start the cycle again.

What the hell. For old time's sake. It had been a while. Except this time, he stuck the radio on the back seat. Change was good, Elwood figured.

He sat in the Bluesmobile for a few minutes, watching the old neighborhood, and listening to the elevated trains roll by overhead. It was almost 7 pm, so it would be filled with the last few people on there way back home from work. He'd missed that sound, for some reason.

Finally, he walked up the stairs of the Plymouth Hotel. Sam wasn't there. It seemed a bit odd.

"Hey Lloyd," he greeted the old man in the cubicle, sitting behind glass. The tv was on, so the old man barely looked up.

"I'm back," Elwood added, but not expecting much of a welcome back greeting.

The old man grumbled something in response. It sounded something like "Yeah, all right." It could just have well been "Oranges ride ripe" or "Army are ride." Who knew? But Elwood liked to assume that Lloyd wasn't actually going senile. At least, not yet.

He looked in through the glass. August 21, 1978 was the day on the calendar. At least, that would be the date if it really was Monday. He wasn't quite sure at the moment.

"Any mail? Anyone call on the phone?" Elwood asked. He didn't know why he asked. No one called him. And mail? Well, he had gotten so used to those damned letters from Mmbito, it seemed a natural thing to ask.

"Arrr rrrr, one call. Couple weeks ago. No message," Lloyd grumbled as he slipped two letters through the opening in the glass window.

"Thanks."

"Arrr rrrr. Didn't think you'd be back."

Elwood didn't bother to answer. He just waved the letters back at him.

He knew who one of them was from. He recognized the air mail envelope. White, with red and white stripes along the edges. And the stamps postmarked from Mmbito. He dreaded opening it. "Dear John" letters always sucked, no matter how long they had been sitting at the reception desk waiting for you.

The second letter, however, was postmarked Joliet.

He smiled. Jake had written him a letter. He didn't expect much. In fact, he didn't expect anything. But there it was, in his hands. A letter from Jake.

He tried to slip pass the crowded and smoky room. Before he could sneak away, he heard the old man across the room call out to him.

"You get my Cheez whiz, boy?"

Elwood let out a silent chuckle. "Nope. Tomorrow."

"How was she?" the old man asked, as he slapped down another card in his poker game.

That was the question he'd dreaded, but never thought any of the drunk or decrepit men would ever bother to ask. He hadn't been back to the Plymouth since the day he left to pick her up at O'Hare. But the day she stood him up, and the day that he decided to take to the road. The old man probably thought Elwood had spent the past four weeks not once seeing the daylight, on his hands and knees, with ten little toes tickling him behind the ears.

Elwood chuckled again. It would have been nice. For sure. But then he would never have had the chance to have his road trip.

"'Bout as I expected," Elwood called back to the man. As he did, he looked at the two letters in his hands. Slapping them across the palm of his hand, he headed for his room.

Hanging up his jacket and disrobing in his old room never felt so good. And nothing had changed, except Lloyd did drink all the booze, like he told him too. The loaf of white bread, however, was more green than anything. He tossed the remains in the trash. He put on an old record, turned on a fan, and sat back on his bed.

He tossed the airmail letter onto his side table. It landed right over one of the pictures of her that he enjoyed the most. He didn't feel like reading that one at all. Not tonight. Maybe never.

Instead, he looked at the letter from Joliet. He wondered if his letter from San Diego had already arrived. Who knew? But by this Saturday, when he'd go visit Jake, it would most likely have arrived. He figured Jake would be happy to see his brother. It had been a month. He knew he missed Jake a lot.

He opened the envelope. It certainly was his writing. No date. And even though the letter was in pencil, Jake had crossed out several words instead of turning the pencil around and using the eraser.

"You stupid prick," Elwood laughed at his brother. But he meant it with the deepest affection.

_

* * *

_

_Dear Elwood,_

_Where the fuck are you? Send some money. I need cigarettes._

_Jake_

* * *

Elwood read the words over and over again. Yup. Jake needed him.

He smiled, sank back into his thin pillow and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

-END PART II-

STORY CONTINUES AS

**LETTERS FROM ELWOOD:**

**THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT**


	13. Epilogue

**_Epilogue_**

Curtis didn't get too many postcards. Who writes to an old janitor, anyway?

But there it was. A card from Elwood. Postmarked Memphis, Tennessee.

Curtis knew that he was the closest thing to a father that Elwood would ever have. And Curtis knew that boy - now a grown man - still had a place in his heart for him.

He read Elwood's short message, over and over again. The edge of the dime store postcard fluttered in his shaking hand.

_I paid my respects at The Lorraine._

_I played "Amazing Grace" for the Reverend. _

_And I played it for you._

Curtis remembered the chaos on the t.v. The image of the balcony of the Lorraine Motel and the Reverend's assassination were permanently seared into his mind.

Then Curtis imagined Elwood at the Lorraine, blowing out the notes of _Amazing Grace_. Elwood wasn't much for words, but he sure could speak volumes with his harmonica.

Tears swelled up in Curtis' eyes, just like they did back on that terrible day. He felt his lips quiver, and a lump get stuck in his throat. Finally, a few tears rolled down his cheeks. Only this time, they weren't tears of sorrow, of anger, or defeat.

This time, they were tears of pride.

* * *

_A/N: Chapter 8 - "Remembering King" - was entered into Marphlet's "Win My Promo" Contest, which wound up as a 4 way tie. This was written and entered as my tie-breaker entry._


End file.
